


Lorenz Attractor

by beastofthesky



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Asexuality, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:27:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1446829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofthesky/pseuds/beastofthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes two more days for you to finally throw in the fucking towel because you hate the silence and in the past year, between two Shatterdomes and too many kaiju attacks, you’ve started to love the pointless bickering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lorenz Attractor

You’ve just passed the one-year mark of working with Hermann, 24/7. Vladivostok Shatterdome.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say innocently, and push a dissection tray dangerously close to the lab’s line of demarcation. “Everything I’ve got is on my side of the room.”  
  
“Please,” Hermann scoffs, “I’m sure your talent for irritation is so far-reaching that you’ve started–” He waves his cane. He only does that when he’s _really_ frustrated. One point awarded to you. “– _budding_ , sporogenesis, spreading it all over–”  
  
But you don’t even hear the rest.  
  
You know he didn’t mean it that way.  
  
You _know_ he didn’t mean it.  
  
But that doesn’t mean you don’t slam the lab door on your way out, still in gloves, still holding a scalpel, and it’s six in the fucking afternoon but you need a cup of coffee. Right now.  
  
You nearly bump into Mako on your way up to the outer catwalks (hot coffee slops all over your hand, at least it wasn’t the wrist that’s still only two days into healing that tattoo) and she shoots you a _really_ worried look from way-too-perceptive kid eyes.  
  
Oh, shit. Wow. Yeah, you should have a jacket. The wind off the coast is _fucking freezing_. Thanks, Mother Russia. You take a drink of your coffee before it gets too cold.  
  
You _know_ Hermann didn’t mean anything with the budding and the sporogenesis because there’s literally no way for him to know, and now you’re feeling kind of dumb about your knee-jerk reaction. Well, no. Not too dumb, but still. Motherfuckers at MIT had been _ruthless_ and they’d found every single stupid fucking way to harass you about your sexuality. Lack thereof. Whatever. You’d thought that it’d be okay – college kids, liberal atmosphere, you’re totally fine to come out.  
  
Mother. Fuckin’. Biologists. Motherfucking _department head_ not recognizing it as actually being hate speech and harassment.  
  
“Fuck,” you hiss, shivering. It’s freezing, old wounds are starting to bleed, your coffee’s going cold, and now all you need to make it a perfect goddamn day is a kaiju attack. You roll your sleeves down and hunch over the thin railing.  
  
“You’re going to catch cold,” calls a voice from behind you.  
  
“Fuck you,” you mumble, but you shoulder past Hermann back into the base anyways, purposefully walking at a pace that’s going to be uncomfortable for him. His reaction might have been Pavlovian, a response to something completely unintentional, but this stupid wound still _stings_ , dammit.  
  
“Newt,” says Hermann, hesitantly, and the only thing that stops you is that, after over a year, he’s _finally_ called you Newt. You don’t turn around; judging by the sound of his footsteps, he’s slowly walking closer. “I recognize that I have upset you in some way that overreaches our usual–” He pauses. You can imagine the way his face is probably scrunched up, looking for a word. “–conversations.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” you mutter, and barely refrain from wincing because wow, your voice does _not_ sound okay.  
  
“You’re not obligated to explain anything,” Hermann continues carefully. He’s standing next to you, now, and you’re both pointedly _not_ looking at each other. “But I would prefer to not make such a mistake again.”  
  
You know exactly what he’s not-quite-asking for. Technically, it wouldn’t really be that hard to say hey, yeah, got teased about something, let’s not talk about asexual reproduction, cool?  
  
Instead, you make a strangled sort of noise, shake your head, and take the longest strides possible towards your bunk.  
  
  
  
  
  
Thirty minutes later, your hands are still shaking and that weird, gross feeling still hasn’t left your chest. Maybe the coffee was a terrible idea. Maybe it wasn’t. At least you haven’t had a panic attack. Yet.  
  
You _know_ you’re not obligated in the least to talk about your personal life. Or about MIT.  
  
Or come out.  
  
But you feel like you _should_.

   
  
  
You stay frosty for two days. Hermann stays mostly quiet and doesn’t squawk when your kaiju guts get close to the Mason-Dixon line. Gottlieb-Geiszler line. That’s okay, though, because you don’t get enthusiastic with your dissections just to piss him off.  
  
Hermann doesn’t push anything. You don’t say anything.  
  
  
  
  
  
It takes two more days for you to finally throw in the fucking towel because you hate the silence and in the past year, between two Shatterdomes and too many kaiju attacks, you’ve started to love the pointless bickering.  
  
You open your mouth and take a breath. Hermann looks over. You chicken out and start walking towards the door.  
  
And then you stop, turn around, fingers drumming against your thigh, and blurt, “I’m asexual, okay?”  
  
Hermann, to his credit, takes off his ridiculous grandpa reading glasses and gives you his full attention. But he doesn’t say anything. That’s not good news because your brain-mouth filter is–– -  
  
“Asexual, like, asexuality, you know? Like a sexual orientation. Or, well, I guess, lack of a sexual orientation? Like, I don’t–”  
  
“Doctor Geiszler–”  
  
“–experience sexual attraction, if you wanna get really clinical about it, but it’s not like–”  
  
“Doctor Geiszler–”  
  
“–I’m a fucking _eukaryote_ , contrary to what the fucking bio department–”  
  
“ _Newt!_ ”  
  
You stutter to a stop, fingers still skittering across your jeans, bouncing one of your legs, and there’s panic bubbling just under your skin. oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god––  
  
“I am fully aware of what asexuality is,” Hermann says, and if it was anyone other than Hermann, you’d probably describe his voice as gentle. “After-” He waves a hand. “I made some conjectures about what it had been that had upset you, and I apologize for upsetting you. I do appreciate you telling me. It’s not an easy undertaking.”  
  
Dead silence.  
  
“Newton?”  
  
“Yeah,” you rasp. Holy shit, why are you blinking so much? Your eyes are stinging. Must be the ammonia. “I, uh… coffee. Want anything?” You know your voice sounds disgustingly fake and your smile probably looks more like a grimace, but whatever.  
  
“No, thank you,” Hermann says, composed as ever, and turns back to his chalkboards.  
  
  
  
  
  
You don’t thank him.  
  
You keep your music down and your kaiju specimens out of the lab’s DMZ, but you don’t thank him. You don’t really know how to.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
  
Three years with Hermann. Panama City Shatterdome.  
  
“I swear, dude,” you say, gesturing with a clump of gland tissue, “you should ditch the sweater vest more often. You look like Captain Jack Harkness. Suspenders and grandpa clothing and all."  
  
“I’m fairly certain that, were I a member of Torchwood, I would _not_ be Captain Jack Harkness,” Hermann sniffs, and finishes crisply rolling up his sleeves. There’s a dark patch on his back where he’s started to sweat through the shirt.  
  
You stare at him for a few seconds.  
  
“Holy shit, I totally expected that reference to go over your head.”  
  
“I grew up with the BBC, you twat,” Hermann says, and his mostly-affectionate eyeroll negates the name-calling. Sort of.  
  
“Fucki–– _uh_ –” There’s someone in the doorway. A definitely young someone. In front of whom you probably definitely shouldn’t be cursing. You cough weakly and offer your newcomer a sheepish grin. “Hey, Mako.”  
  
Hermann shoots you a patented Glare before pointedly saying, “Hello, _Miss Mori_.”  
  
“What can we do you for?” You strip off your kaiju-stained gloves and expertly slingshot them into a hazmat container. She shrugs and grins.  
  
“It’s hot, your lab is underground–” She gestures vaguely. “I just finished at the Kwoon.”  
  
 _That_ would explain it. Her hair – still all electric-blue after, like, five weeks (you want to know what brand of hair dye that is) (for science) – is pulled back into a short ponytail, and there’s sweat shining on her face. Hell, there’s sweat shining on _everyone’s_ faces. Summers in Panama City are merciless. Fuck humidity, seriously.  
  
“Going to make sure you’re at the top of the incoming class at the Academy?” Hermann asks, setting his chalk down, smiling crookedly back at her.  
  
Hermann is so fuckin’ far gone as far as Mako is concerned.  
  
Well, okay, that’s kind of a hypocritical statement since you’re _also_ really fuckin’ far gone as far as she’s concerned. Hermann helps her out with math and physics and her pet project Jaeger OS upgrades (which, ^, those are gonna be so amazing) and you help her out with biology and the unofficial simulators (totally not video games) and, more recently, things that can be filed under _boy troubles_ which you are in no way qualified to help out with but hey, Mako trusts you enough to talk about it. _And_ it makes you the Cool Uncle to Hermann’s Nerdy Uncle. So.  
  
Of everyone in K-Science, Mako seems to be particularly attached to you two. Maybe it’s because you share the smallest lab or or because you’ve been around the longest or because your yelling can be heard outside the Shatterdome (according to several sources _and_ official complaints filed) but you know that Hermann doesn’t mind at all and you don’t, either. Mako is fifteen and sharp as a whip and _really goddamn adorable_ and proper and respectful while also managing to have an air of “I can be terrifying if I want.”  
  
“Wow,” Mako says, inching closer to you, squinting at your chest, “that’s beautiful work. I didn’t know it was all one piece.”  
  
You preen. You’re shirtless because it’s hot as _balls_ , and it’s not like you’re gonna dump kaiju blood all over yourself or anything. You’re more likely to get, like, radiation poisoning from Hermann’s constant glaring and scoffing at your _breaching of lab protocol_. Yeah, whatever. Keep sweating in that fucking collared shirt.  
  
“Yep,” you say, cracking one of your shoulders, “all one piece. I’ve got a couple gaps, you know, in case the predictive model is actually correct–” Hermann sneers. “–but I’m all one gorgeous work of art.”  
  
“I’ve seen finer ‘ _art_ ’ lying in a dung heap,” Hermann hisses.  
  
“Philistine.”  
  
Mako giggles, bless her, and perches herself on an empty lab stool.  
  
“You know,” you continue, “if you ever want a tattoo then lemme know, because I–”  
  
“Newton, you are _absolutely not_ giving Miss Mori any tattoos,” Hermann says loudly over you. “Are you daft?”  
  
“Jesus christ, Herms,” you snap back, “I was _going_ to say that I know which parlors and artists are safe and clean _and_ only after she turns eighteen, but thanks for judging me, really.” Hermann’s face is still in sneering mode but he’s slightly taken aback. “ _Dickbiscuit_.”  
  
“Miss Mori–” Hermann’s recovered in record time. “–I do hope you have more sense than _Doctor_ Geiszler, and that you choose to decorate your body in a way that does not involve kaiju entrails.” And then he walks right up into your face, narrows his eyes, and hisses, “Do not _ever_ call me that, or you shall never again see the light of day.”  
  
You’re pretty sure that’s an actual threat this time so you grin wide right back at him. Behind Hermann, Mako is trying not to laugh.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
Five years with Hermann. Sydney Shatterdome.  
  
K-Science is huge; you’re co-head of the division with Hermann, and you’ve got a fucking army of biologists at your command. Mako Mori enters the Jaeger Academy at eighteen. You and Hermann drink to her achievement and to future success. You find out why he’s got a cane. He learns about your childhood.  
  
Jaegers start dropping like flies.  
  
There’s a girl, though. Her name’s Emily. Short, curvy, bisexual. One of your K-Science minions did the whole “so I’ve got this cousin and he’s got this friend” thing and that’s how you end up going out for coffee one morning and the next and the next and then making a date for a couple of beers at the end of the week, a bar reasonably close to the Sydney Shatterdome.  
  
Hermann fusses over you like an angry grandmother and tells you to do something about _that rats’ nest you call hair_ so you flip him the bird and head out.  
  
Emily hugs you and orders you a local beer and grins and you want to _want_ her, _really_ want her. You know your brain doesn’t fire those circuits but you keep leaning in to her anyways, you walk her home in spite of that, you step through her door and let her kiss you and run your hands through her short hair and you honestly like it. You’re a total sucker for smooches.  
  
Your jacket is abandoned on the couch and her hands are straying to your crotch, palm sliding down to the seam of your zipper, and you shift back out of her reach.  
  
“What?” she whispers, smiling, looking up through her eyelashes. “Don’t tell me you’re shy.”  
  
You close your eyes for a heartbeat. You pray to whatever’s out there that this isn’t going to end badly.  
  
“Emily,” you say slowly, “I’m ace.”  
  
“What?” The smile slides off of her face.  
  
“I’m asexual,” you repeat, and bite back the panic. “I’m not– I don’t really–”  
  
But you’re cut off when her palm meets your face. The sound reverberates tinnily throughout the room and you’re speechless, because it’s been _years_ since you were young and stupid enough to make someone slap you, even as a joke.  
  
“Well, that’s the most creative dismissal I’ve ever heard,” she says coldly.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You don’t want to date me, fine.” She crosses her arms. “You don’t want to screw me, also fine. But you don’t have to make up an elaborate excuse. I mean, I’ve heard _I’m gay_ , but this one is new. What, w’d’you rather do the kaiju?” She gestures angrily at your arms. “Or are you covering your own arse ‘cause you can’t get it up?”  
  
“I should go home,” you say, and reach for your jacket. There’s no sense in trying.  
  
“Yeah, you should.”  
  
  
  
  
You head for the lab because you don’t have anywhere else to go. It’s past 1am and the Shatterdome is on a skeleton crew for the night; no one looks at you twice.  
  
  
The main lab banks are still (sparsely) populated but yours and Hermann’s shared office is quiet, dim. Hermann’s 3D terminal is off but his computer is on, and the ammonia-filled tanks are glowing softly on your half. You can’t even bring yourself to look at your side of the room, kaiju-covered, because Emily’s words are still burning bright in your head so you sit down at Hermann’s desk, instead, and let your head fall down into your hands.  
  
“Newton?”  
  
You absolutely _do not_ jump two feet into the air and whip around so fast that you almost fall off of the chair. You _don’t_.  
  
Hermann is standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hallway, and it looks like he’s carrying a mug.  
  
“I thought you’d be gone until the morn–” He stops, halfway to the desk – his desk, at which you’re still sitting – and promptly sets the mug down. “What happened?”  
  
You look up at him and try to find words for it but he cuts you off before you can say anything, reaches for your face, tilts it up gently into the light.  
  
“Newton, I am going to ask you one more time: _what happened?_ ” He’s scrutinizing your cheek and, come to think of it, it’s still stinging. Maybe one of the rings Emily was wearing cut you. You can’t really bring yourself to care.  
  
“I thought–” Your voice breaks. You swallow and start again. “I thought she’d get it, you know, ‘cause she’s queer, too.”  
  
“Up,” Hermann says softly, and pulls on your elbow. “I’m going to clean that.”  
  
There’s a huge part of you wondering what the _fuck_ happened to Hermann “Vitriol” Gottlieb and who the hell the dude standing in front of you is, because you can count on one hand the number of times that Hermann’s been nice to you. Actually, you can really only think of one occasion. It’s a mark of how shitty you feel that you don’t offer some kind of lame _who mugged you with a Care Bear_ joke. Instead, you follow him over to the corner where the emergency first-aid kit is stashed and you dutifully sit down on the couch at his behest and then everything starts bubbling over.  
  
“Like, she was– we were making out and it was great, you know? Totally awesome, but then her hands– _ouch_ –” Hermann makes a face at you, then dabs at your cut again. “She started going for my dick, so I backed off, but–” You take a breath, try to come up with a way to explain everything without sounding even more melodramatic.  
  
“Please tell me she stopped when you asked her to,” Hermann says, and, well, shit. You’ve never actually seen his godlike wrath directed at someone other than you, and it’s _chilling_.  
  
“Yeah, no, she backed off right away.” Hermann is neatly packing up the first-aid kit, and you watch him put it back in its place before going on. “I just–” You squeeze your eyes shut. The couch dips next to you. “I really thought she’d get it. She I assumed I was, like, turning her down, but–” You swallow again, around the lump in your throat. “God, she just thought it was some big excuse I made up to turn her down. Like it’s not real, like _I’m_ not a real person.”  
  
“Someone like that doesn’t deserve your time,” Hermann murmurs.  
  
“Yeah, I know.” You lean against him, just a little, and when he doesn’t stiffen or move away, you slump even further into his shoulder. What the fuck ever. It’s not like either of you will ever, ever admit to having a conversation that didn’t consist of yelling, so you might as well milk this quiet softness for all it’s worth. “It’s– I mean, she’s queer, too. She’s _queer_. She shouldn’t have–” You exhale, frustrated. “God, I hate this.”  
  
Hermann is quiet for a second before saying, “Rejection isn’t–”  
  
“Not rejection.” God, you sound bitter as fuck. You bark out a horribly fake laugh. “The entire fucking world is insistent on trying to tell me I’m mistaken about my sexuality. _Just a phase_ or _the right person_ or _hormones_ , pick your poison. I’ve heard ‘em all.”  
  
“You’re not broken,” Hermann says, softly, almost idly, and puts a hand on your knee. “You don’t need fixing. You’re perfectly, infuriatingly insufferable the way you are.”  
  
“Actually, it’s pronounced, ‘you’re perfect and intelligent and always right,’” you joke, and Hermann lets you half-curl yourself into his side, his hand still on your knee. “But. You know. Thanks. Or whatever.”  
  
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Hermann murmurs, and you can feel his mouth moving against your temple as he says it. You curl a hand around Hermann’s and he squeezes it back and, you think, everything is going to be okay for now. The world’s not ending.  
  
At least, not yet.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Hermann asks you to come to London with him. He hasn’t said anything specific, of course, but it’s something to do with his marriage. You don’t really know what’s going on, and Hermann – though, naturally, he doesn’t say _anything_ like it – needs you as backup.  
  
After over six years, you still haven’t met his wife. You’ve seen him write countless emails and send texts and excuse himself to answer phone calls, but he doesn’t talk too much about his personal life. You’d had no idea he was married, for a while, because he never wore a wedding band. He talks about Vanessa, yeah, but… yeah.  
  
He’s the one who goes to Pentecost to request personal leave for the two of you. Drs. Puri and Ramotswe are more than capable of handling K-Science for a few days, even in the event of a kaiju attack. Which Hermann says isn’t gonna happen. _Shouldn’t_ happen.  
  
The flight from Anchorage – _flights_ , plural, to LAX and then Heathrow – aren’t so bad. Flying used to make you super fuckin’ anxious but after being hauled through every country on the Pacific Rim, like, three times, you’re over it.  
  
Vanessa is stunning. She opens the door wearing running tights and a pullover, barefoot, curly hair pulled into an unruly bun, and you smile because she just lights the fuck up at the sight of Hermann. Next to you, all of the tension melts out of his frame, and Hermann “Don’t Touch Me” Gottlieb lets Vanessa sweep him into a tight hug with a kiss on the cheek. She shakes your hand as he introduces you and then grins when you and Hermann _have to_ go through the whole Doctor Geiszler No Not Doctor Call Me Newt song and dance.  
  
It’s easily a thousand times less awkward than you thought it would be, to stay with the man you've fallen in love with, at his house, with his wife. Vanessa is clever and charming and hilarious and it looks like whatever was worrying at Hermann has dissolved in his wife’s presence. You don’t know if it was, like, Marriage Problems, but there’s no overcompensating, forced sappiness and there’s definitely no chill in the air (and you’ve been there, you’ve been wingman for when your friends are fighting with their partners) and Hermann’s happy, so you’re happy.  
  
You decline a coffee and “turn in early” at six-thirty in the evening with a mug of tea instead, just to give them some space. Dr. Puri has already sent you eight emails, three of which are reports to Pentecost cc’d to you. Yeah, K-Science is definitely safe and sound in her hands. You fish out some headphones and start dissecting your inbox.  
  
At nine, there’s a knock on the door. You freeze. Another knock. A sigh.  
  
“Newton, I know you’re awake.”  
  
“Oh,” you reply, eloquently.  
  
The door opens slowly. In the dim light from the hallway, Hermann looks dead tired, and you can’t tell whether it’s from jet lag or… other stuff.  
  
“Everything okay, man?” you ask, and set aside your laptop right as a new email beeps sullenly at you.  
  
“May I come in?” Hermann responds, and puts a hand in his pants pocket.  
  
“Dude, it’s _your_ house. Duh.”  
  
That, at least, earns you a scowl. Hermann moves some of your clothes off of the lone chair in the room – oops – and sits down. This is one of the few moments in your life where you _know_ you need to shut up, and you do.  
  
“I love Vanessa,” he says, without preamble. “I do, truly. And we– er, get along.” Holy shit, you’re not imagining it. He’s totally flushing beet-red right now, and he’s _totally_ getting laid. You grin and bounce your eyebrows at him; he glares back. “ _Do_ try to be serious.”  
  
“I am,” you protest. “Never been more serious.”  
  
Hermann gives you another long look, then continues. “Vanessa one of the most important people in my life.” He drops his gaze, looks down at his hands. “I love her very much, and I would die for her, but my– my feelings towards her are entirely platonic.”  
  
A thousand puzzle pieces click together in your head and you open your mouth, think better of it, and close your mouth. For once.  
  
You’ve misjudged Hermann yet again. Hermann, with all his stuffy sweaters and button-ups and conservatism and _math_ , was the last person you’d expected to Understand your sexuality. He’d been the first. And now, you realize, this is probably why. Hermann’s attraction is split into two spheres whose only intersection is on the platonic plane. His relationship with Vanessa is deep and beautiful and 100% platonic, 0% romantic, side of the sexual, hold the cheese.  
  
Coming to terms with it must’ve been rough. Hell, it _had_ been rough. You realized you’d watched it happen.  
  
“However, I– we have reached a consensus, and a solution.”  
  
“Divorce?” you blurt, quietly, incredulously. It seems wrong, somehow.  
  
“No,” Hermann says, and smiles. “An open relationship. We would both be perfectly satisfied seeing each other happy with another person. I do love her, but she is… not the object of my romantic affections.”  
  
He’s staring straight at you. You’re pretty fucking sure that you know _exactly_ what he means by what he isn’t saying.  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, you wake up early from jet lag (four in the motherfucking morning, you have no clue what your internal clock is doing) and wander into the kitchen only to find an equally awake, equally disgruntled Hermann waiting for the kettle to boil.  
  
The two of you end up bickering so loudly that, at 5:39, Vanessa shouts something unintelligible from behind her bedroom door and you dissolve into helpless, silent laughter. Hermann looks like he’d be perfectly happy committing murder.  


 

* * *

  
  
  
Seven years with Hermann. Anchorage Shatterdome.  
  
They’re starting to decommission Shatterdomes. You’re terrified.  
  
Anchorage is the first to go. The official decommissioning date is still over a year away, but it’s already started. Personnel are getting quietly sent away to other locations (or getting even more quietly let go) and materials start getting shipped out, too, and K-Science is down to you and Hermann and ten other people. After six months, there’s only three other people left.  
  
There’s a memorable week right before you’re supposed to leave, where construction on the housing wing cuts the number of rooms down to a fourth of what it was. Nearly everyone is forced to share and the mood in the Shatterdome plummets even further, because between the fact that the “private buyer” is an impatient asshole and the increasingly looming decommissioning date, everyone is cranky about being stuffed into small rooms with too many people and too few beds.  
  
You and Hermann get lucky. Hermann’s room is on the demo list, so he sleeps with you for a week.  
  
Some douchebag Jaeger tech tries to talk shit on Hermann to you on the third night, having made the (incorrect) assumption that the two of you actually hate each other. You defend him ferociously, and it turns out that Hermann had been listening to you the entire time.  
  
He kisses you, later that night. It’s a light peck that could just as easily have been a pat on the shoulder. He ends up smudging your glasses, so the two of you have a loud row that degenerates into arguing about the educational system in Germany, but you crawl close to each other under the covers anyways, pressed together between three layers of clothing each, keeping away the sub-arctic cold.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Nine years. You Drift with a kaiju. You Drift with Hermann.  
  
It’s terrifying and confusing and so much gets lost in the mad rush to LOCCENT and the ensuing upheavals of losing Striker Eureka and closing the Breach and holy shit Hermann lets you hug him and then comes back for seconds and okay, maybe you shouldn’t be drinking, so you set down the beer that someone pressed into your hand.  
  
Lots of people are crying, both from happiness and loss. You’ve lost _three Jaeger teams_ and Marshal Pentecost. It’s worth crying over.  
  
But you’re tired. _Really_ tired. You’re jittery and shaking from adrenaline and lack of sleep; your brain keeps buzzing in the direction of Hermann like some sort of fucked compass and every time you close your eyes, you see a burst of blue connecting the two of you. Two Drifts in a row and you’re so fucked up from the kaiju, _so fucked up_ , and you kinda just want to do that thing where you pass out on the ugly-ass floral lab couch on top of Hermann’s parka, to a lullaby of chalk on the blackboards.  
  
Right as you sit down, the lab door creaks open and Hermann steps quietly through. You watch him make his way towards the couch and through the Drift you can feel how tired he is, too, practically trembling with it. You’re sitting in the middle of the couch and you realize a little too late that you should’ve scooted to one side, but Hermann sits down next to you and your thighs are pressed together and it’s okay.  
  
“Saw a lot of stuff in the Drift,” you mumble. The words _we’re Drift compatible_ are still banging around loudly in your head, still tinged with traces of incredulity. You can feel Hermann acknowledging your thoughts, and you’re so tired that you can’t even find it in you to geek out about it.  
  
“Indeed,” Hermann agrees quietly. You look at each other for a few heartbeats, the Drift blissfully silent between you, and then he reaches out, slowly, and pulls down your left eyelid a thousand times more gently than Hannibal Chau had. “It’s clearing up.”  
  
“Yours isn’t,” you reply. “Uh, yet. I guess.” You reach forward, intending to mirror him, but your thumb ends up just sweeping across his cheekbone and then he’s pulling you closer, too, leaning your foreheads together, sharing shaky breaths, and this is when it really hits you that the world isn’t ending any more.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Herms,” you croak, and scrub a hand down your face. You’ve got absolutely no idea what time it is, and you’re not sure you want to know.  
  
“ _Do not_ start this right now,” Hermann snaps back, muffled into a pillow. You chuckle tiredly, then carefully roll over him and slither your way off of the bed. Okay, so boxers: check. T-shirt: check. Pants: not so much.  
  
Right, okay, that pair a) had been your second-favorite and b) got totally trashed during the kaiju attack, so you threw them out before crawling into Hermann’s bed for the night and losing consciousness. Okay. You move towards the door.  
  
“Where are you going?” Hermann rasps, half sitting up, and there’s a terrifying lack of venom in his voice. There’s a persistent hum in the back of your head like worry that’s not yours and you know that’s the Drift hangover, _still_ , telling you what’s going through Hermann’s head. You don’t really know what to do with this information. It shouldn’t have lasted this long.  
  
“I need some pants, dude,” you reply, shrugging. “And coffee.” You slowly walk back to the bed. “I’m not running off or anything. You really think you can get rid of me this easy?” At that, finally, a smile starts to spread across Hermann’s face.  
  
“You I might be able to get rid of with some well-placed kaiju blood,” Hermann says, still smiling, “but the stains you’ve left on my lab notes will remain forever.”  
  
“That was _one time_ ,” you fire back, voice rising up to normal pseudo-conversational argument levels. Blue sparks bloom in the back of your head. “And, by the way, you can totally get that stuff out if you _know how to_. Which, obviously, you don’t. Because _I’m_ the expert here.”  
  
“Yes, well, last time you were the expert on how to clean something, you filled the entire Sydney lab with toxic fumes!”  
  
“At least I didn’t accidentally multiply the hacked-into supply orders of tea and coffee by _one fucking thousand_ instead of ten!”  
  
You’re standing in the open doorway and Hermann is sitting on the edge of the bed and both of you realize that you’ve been shouting _really goddamn loudly_ only when someone in the hallway clears their throat. Hermann clams up instantly and you swallow laughter at the look on his face.  
  
“Uh, anyways,” you say, at a much more normal volume, “pants and coffee. You want anything?”  
  
“Tea,” Hermann replies, “milk–”  
  
“Milk, no sugar, no lemon. Yeah, I know.”

  
  
It turns out the two of you slept for over a day and a half, and that everyone is still partying like there's no tomorrow.  
  
Okay, so maybe not the greatest idiom, but yeah. You and Hermann avoid the Jaeger bays in favor of your lab because there's shit to do and loose ends to tie up and research to shut down and samples to preserve.  
  
“I never realized how badly I wanted to be wrong,” Hermann says quietly after an hour of uncharacteristically nearly-silent work in the lab. You finish sealing off a kaiju organ and look up at him. He’s leaning against his desk, staring up at his miles-long chalkboards with a look on his face that’s cracked wide open, so you go and stand next to him close enough to where your shoulders and thighs are touching. There’s a blue, Hermann-flavored hum building behind your eyelids. “I was so wrapped up in the maths being correct that the application didn’t occur to me. I feel awful.”  
  
“Yeah, well–” You laugh weakly. “–if it makes you feel any better, I can’t believe I actually wanted to see a live kaiju up close.”  
  
“It doesn’t, particularly,” Hermann replies, and slides his palm against yours, leans his weight on you. The previously quiet part of your brain still in the Drift lights up like Christmas.  
  
You kiss him.  
  
You’ve kissed each other before, yeah. The first time, you were intentionally being annoying about a breakthrough you’d just had, so you’d smooched him full on the mouth.  Then he’d kissed you back, after one of _his_ breakthroughs. So on, so forth. Generally the smooching had been restricted just to annoying each other (just like slopping kaiju entrails all over the floor or covering dissection trays in chalk dust).  
  
This time, it’s in fucking earnest. You kiss him slowly, barely pressing your mouth to his at first, taking in the way his eyelashes brush against your face and the way his hand curves around your neck. Your hip is pressed awkwardly into Hermann’s desk but this is so fucking good that you can’t be bothered to move, you just curl your hands even tighter into Hermann’s stupid fucking sweater vest.  
  
“Newton,” he breathes against your mouth, and you kiss him again to shut him up.  
  
“Not right now,” you mumble. “Just–” And Hermann’s hands move up to cup your face and he kisses you, _really fucking kisses you_ , dispensing with the careful groundwork you were laying and leaning his whole body into it, and you run your tongue over his bottom lip and snake a hand up into his hair.  
  
Emotions flare up in oversaturated bursts every time you move your mouths against each others’ and you’ve completely lost track of what belongs to whom _finally waited wanted **finally** mild annoyance smitten lovingly exasperated_ but there’s exhaustion underlining everything, shaky irrealis, _striker’s gone cherno’s gone typhoon’s gone so many people dead_ and you only wish you could’ve solved the kaiju sooner.  
  
Hermann presses the bridge of his nose to your own and draws in sharp, shallow breaths; you’re trembling under his hands (and you can feel him feeling it, like the whisper of an echo) and your eyelashes are wet but there’s no room for embarrassment between the two of you.  
  
“Drift hangover,” Hermann breathes. “It’s never been quantified before, we could–”  
  
You kiss him because he’s _right there_ and of _course_ he’s thinking of unraveling Drift hangover and figuring out what it is and why it happens and if you could just look at some MRIs and EEGs then maybe the two of you could puzzle this out and–  
  
“–make it easier for the pilots–”  
  
“–less hardware in the Conn-pod–” One of your hands is straying towards Hermann’s laptop, clumsily pushing it open, searching for a pen or some chalk to scribble this down and Hermann is shuffling through papers on his desk but both of you are too tangled up in each other to get anything done properly. “If you could make a stable neural handshake–”  
  
“– _without_ the neural bridge, yes, enhance the connection to extend _past_ –”  
  
“–just using the bridge to _make_ the connection, you know? Not to keep it, because the pilots can already do that themselves–”  
  
“–in the hangover, and Jaegers _have_ been documented that moved with their pilots when shut down. Newton,” Hermann declares, nose-to-nose with you, “we could change the world.”  
  
“We already have,” you reply, and a slow grin spreads across Hermann’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, my darling [e](http://archiveofourown.org/users/casicastiel/pseuds/casicastiel), for betaing this mess back in November for me.


End file.
